


Fill My Burning Lungs

by resurrectedhippo



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Bottom Tony Stark, Civil War (Marvel), Civil War: Casualties of War (Marvel), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sex, Kinktober 2020, Kissing, M/M, Relationship Issues, Rimming, spitting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:07:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26880385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/resurrectedhippo/pseuds/resurrectedhippo
Summary: It’s a different fight this time. A harder battle because they’ll want to hold each other, be gentle in the right ways, be rough in the ways that feel good, because Tony’s always liked it when Steve fucked him hard and raw until he was cross-eyed and unintelligible, babbling about how wonderful and handsome Steve is and biting his bottom lip so he doesn’t spill how much he loves Steve, so much so that he’d swallow the world to keep him safe.He doesn’t know what Steve wants. Maybe they could be better, maybe they could go back, maybe Tony could be honest. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Steve lives in the spaces of possibilities, Tony rings around the circumference of compromise. They could be more, Steve might think.But Tony knows they have just the night.He wants to be wrong, but he’s probably right.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 8
Kudos: 74
Collections: Anti Soulmate Kinktober 2020





	Fill My Burning Lungs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sapphic_Futurist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sapphic_Futurist/gifts).



> _“he fills my burning lungs/with sinful cravings never satisfied.”_ -Charles Baudelaire, LaDestruction 
> 
> Set immediately after Iron Man/Captain America: Casualties of War. 
> 
> Kinktober Day 7: Spit/Spitting
> 
> Thank you to [Alpine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/In_umbra_gratia) for the beta. <3

They’re inside the Mansion. Steve has Tony pressed to the rubble, broken wood and plaster digging onto his back. He could push Steve off if he wants to. Steve might be an inch taller, larger in mass, but with Extremis, Tony could have their positions flipped. 

They're sitting in the destruction of what used to be home and Steve still smells the same way he always has: sweaty, masculine, and if hope had a scent, it would be this. 

There's this hint of bitterness in his eyes, the way he carries tension in his shoulders, the grim line of his mouth. Steve's body is draped over Tony and he’s jabbing a gloved finger on Tony’s face.

Tony wants to bite it off. Put it in his mouth and be done with it. 

“Are you done?” Tony asks, and he’s not crying anymore but his face feels tight and his eyes still sting. Steve isn’t any better. He’s seen this man cry over the years, but now, Steve won’t even give him an inch. 

The foundation of the Mansion is still here but the interior is rotten. Rats scurry off. Cockroaches ignore them.

Steve presses him further down the dilapidated beams. “Did you forget who taught you how to fight?”

No, how could Tony forget the nights Steve slammed him down onto the mat, then, their mattress, crafting bruises along Tony’s wrists and thighs. 

“I didn’t forget,” Tony says. He stares into Steve’s eyes. Blue. An ocean of problems. An ocean to drown in.

“Then, how could you do this to us?” Steve’s harsh pants are the only thing he can hear. 

Tony thinks Steve is crumbling, too. A fragile little house finally burning. He’s letting the poles and beams fall down. 

“Fuck you, Steve, fuck you,” Tony’s shaking his head, frantic now. What the fuck is Steve talking about? How can Steve do this?

Tony is pinned to the floor with the rest of the debris, Steve’s arm right over his chest. The contrast of the golden undersheath with Steve’s red gloves reminds him of the Iron Man suit and how Steve used to strip the plates off him.

Instead, Tony gathers his failing courage—maybe it’s recklessness—he leans forward, sucks his tongue, then spits on Steve’s face. 

His saliva hits the edges of Steve's cowl, dips down the sharp slope of his nose, then onto Steve's cupid bow. Damn, he didn't get it on the "A.”

Steve is shocked, but only for a moment, then, he's licking his lips with a fleeting smile. He moves on top of Tony, lining their bodies, pressing their chests together. He’s inches away from Tony and he’s about to say something, instead he uses his thumb and forefinger to force Tony’s mouth open. He spits into Tony’s panting mouth, slow like honey pouring out of the jar. “I prefer you spitting at me in another context.”

Tony crumbles. Inch by inch until Steve’s pulling himself up, grabbing his shield. Tony scurries like that damned pack of rats from earlier, and calls for the suit. 

“We should have talked sooner.”

“Yeah.” Tony swallows, aiming to say more. He doesn’t know what, but Steve’s already turning away.

* * *

Shortly after Tony strips off the suit, Steve shows up.

“What are you doing here?”

A quick scan with Extremis informs Tony that the Tower is empty except for Jarvis who’s away in his quarters. 

“There’s something I wanted to say,” Steve explains, hands dropping to his sides. “What I couldn’t say earlier.”

Tony stays silent, cataloguing the scuff on Steve’s boots, all the closed pouches on his utility belt, the determined frown on his face. There was a time when they walked the streets, shoulders brushing against each other, with the firm belief that they’d always be friends. Now, Tony doesn’t know if there’s anything left. 

“Go on, then,” Tony stays rooted on the spot. There’s only the kitchen island separating them. They have always been different. Tony has enough insight to know that Steve’s a better man. But good men don’t always do the right thing, not when they can’t see past their own myopic sights. 

Their time at the Mansion just earlier is still fresh in his mind.

Steve’s shoulders shake in what’s almost a laugh. Tony used to find that cute, adorable even, when Steve was flustered and tried to make himself appear smaller. Not used. Steve Rogers is still pulling at his heart strings. 

When Steve turns back to Tony, there’s a deprecating smile on his face. It’s wrong. Steve is a man who should always wear a genuine smile. Tony used to think there wasn’t a single bad atom in Steve’s body. Maybe he’s wrong about that too. 

“You always make it difficult.”

“Would I be me if it was easy?”

“It could be, you know.” Steve says. “It could be easy.”

“Are you trying to tell me that walking away from my position, from everything would be easy? They’d hunt me down. They’d _hunt you,_ and the rest of us down. How many times do we have to go over this? I told you earlier—You don’t know the proposed alternative, Steve.” Tony flattens his hands on the counter, trying to control his shaking fingers. They spoke at the Avengers Mansion just hours ago and a trip to memory lane did nothing. They’re barely holding onto the tatters of their friendship. “Do you think it’s easy for me to be on the other side? To be away from you—from all of you?”

“It’s a hard act to walk the line you’re on, Tony. I respect that.”

“But you disagree,” Tony breathes out, tearing his eyes away from the counter to look at Steve.

“I won’t bend.” Steve walks over and he’s just on the other side of the sink. That’s them, now, isn’t it? On the side of each other. An immovable rudder preventing the construction of any bridge. Tony will even take a rickety one at this point.

“It’s too presumptions of me to ask you to, yeah.” Tony eyes the strands of hair curling against Steve’s ears. That usually happens after he stripped the cowl back. Even now, Tony wants to run his fingers through it. 

“No hard feelings?”

“Of course not, Steve.”

“We should stop lying to each other, then.” Tony sighs. 

“I wish we could come back from this.”

“We still could, Tony, please listen, you have to know that—”

“You didn’t come here to talk about that. You don’t listen, Steve. I’m tired of trying to talk over you.”

“I didn’t come to talk at all.” Steve tilts his head, he’s looking around the Tower, this place they once shared and tried to build into a home, even for just a few weeks. 

Steve’s portrait, large and immaculate, still hangs in the conference room and when Tony has meetings with the other Avengers—well, the ones that are still there and backing him—he can’t help but stare at the painting, wondering whether Steve hates him. “Let’s not fight tonight. Not here.” 

He swallows the bile rising from his throat. No, Steve’s right. Save the fighting for outdoors, when they’re both wearing their masks, sporting their uniforms. Tonight is something else. Steve is in street clothes, his jeans are pressed perfectly and a little faded, like a reminder that they’re both human, persons who can be someone else without the code names, titles, and public positions. 

But that might not be true. Steve’s still stubborn, even if the lines on his lips are a little softer, even if his eyebrows aren’t furrowed. They’ll talk in circles just like they did in the Mansion. The fight bleeds out of him, and Tony surrenders to the lull of Steve standing close to him. 

“What do you want to do instead?” Tony asks, not realizing he’s been holding his breath. 

“I’m glad to talk to you without the mask.”

“It sounds like you missed seeing my handsome face.”

Tony huffs, it’s almost like banter, but he knows they’re balancing on the edges of the cliffs. One word is all it would take to fall into cutting words and raised fists. 

“Is that really so hard to believe?”

“Come on, Winghead, you didn’t come here to share the couch and catch a movie.”

“I didn’t.” Steve’s behind him now. There’s a puff of air raising goosebumps on his neck. A shiver runs down his spine and Tony has to bite the gasp trying to escape when Steve puts a hand on his hip. Tony closes his eyes, gives in, rests his head on the curve of Steve’s shoulders.

“I feel like this would be saying goodbye,” Tony’s eyes open to catch the moonlight drifting in the outdoor balcony. They haven’t made the Avengers Tower home. 

“It doesn’t have to be,” Steve pulls him close, buries his nose on the column of Tony’s neck, peppers kisses in the sensitive curve of his ear, then Steve’s licking and tasting the sweat from their fight earlier.

It’s a different fight this time. A harder battle because they’ll want to hold each other, be gentle in the right ways, be rough in the ways that feel good, because Tony’s always liked it when Steve fucked him hard and raw until he was cross-eyed and unintelligible, babbling about how wonderful and handsome Steve is and biting his bottom lip so he doesn’t spill how much he loves Steve, so much so that he’d swallow the world to keep him safe.

_Isn’t it—Isn’t—Isn’t this it? Isn’t that what he’s trying to do?_

Tony shifts, feeling the fire in his belly, the swell between his legs, and he’s helpless to stick his hands on the glass window, allowing Steve’s ministrations. He leaves fingerprints on the glass, pressing further forward as Steve snakes the hand from his hip to Tony’s stomach, rubbing, gentle, checking the forming bruise of where he punched Tony just earlier. 

Tony breathes, the exhale measured, and he finds the courage to take Steve’s hand—the one patting his belly in short strokes—and bring it to his chest. Tony intertwines their fingers, stares at the moon outside, rising impossibly higher. It’s playful, almost lovely because it’s unreachable. But Tony’s circled its atmosphere and knows it’s a dead rock. 

Steve squeezes his fingers. A question. 

One Tony doesn’t have the answer to. 

He doesn’t know what Steve wants. Maybe they could be better, maybe they could go back, maybe Tony could be honest. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Steve lives in the spaces of possibilities, Tony rings around the circumference of compromise. They could be more, Steve might think. 

But Tony knows they have just the night. 

He wants to be wrong, but he’s probably right.

Tony shifts, moving face to face with Steve. In their boots, they’re the same height. Equal in length, twin frowns streaking their faces. Steve shouldn't look like this, mouth pressed like a hyphen, like he ate something sour. Tony's seen Steve displeased, witnessed him cry late in the evening, bark orders in daylight. 

Tony has lived in the quiet spaces of Steve’s sharp knuckles inside him. Then, striking his face. Just earlier, too. 

Steve raises a hand, slow, like he’s afraid Tony thinks he’ll punch him and duck out. Tony stands his ground. He knows how Steve looks when he’s about to lean in for a kiss. Smiling, always, like kissing is the best thing, and because he has said over and over, between their lips meeting again and again, _I like chasing the sound of your laughter._

Only this time, Tony chokes on a sob when Steve ducks down and licks his lips. Tony surrenders. Steve coaxes his mouth open, and they’re wrapping around each other, kissing hard and fast, equal measures of longing and spit. Tony nibbles on Steve’s bottom lip, receiving a groan and squeeze on his ass. 

Tony’s hand has migrated to pull Steve’s face, trailing open mouthed kisses on his neck, pushing his t-shirt down so Tony could reach the upper corners of his pecs. Steve pushes him back, grinding their bodies closer, until they’re pressed from hip to hip, no inch of their bodies left untouched. Steve’s large hands are on the back of his neck, squeezing, asking. Just one hopeful look from Steve and everything unravels.

Tony’s nodding, _okay, okay, yes, of course,_ whispering to Steve between kisses, hands brushing up and down Steve’s torso. “Bed, let’s go to bed.” 

_Our bed,_ Tony doesn’t say. 

Steve’s running his fingers over Tony’s hair, chanting words that sound like _I’m sorry, I’m sorry._ For earlier, Tony thinks. Then, Steve’s burying his face on Tony’s neck again, wet little kisses that almost mask the drips of his tears. Tony’s eyes hurt. He grabs Steve’s biceps, squeezes them, once, twice, and they have eyes on each other again, following each other’s slight movements, the rise and fall of their chests.

“Steve,” Tony says, and that’s all it takes for Steve to get into action, pulling Tony’s thighs until they’re wrapped around his waist. They kiss again, slower, a little softer, like tomorrow will never come. Tony’s pushing Steve’s hair back, making the thick blond tufts stand messy.

Tony likes Steve messy with the taste of him, evidence of debauching perfect, pristine Captain America, making Steve suck his cock. Tony moans with the thought, doubles his effort in trying to peel off Steve's shirt. He doesn’t succeed because their angles are all wrong but they’re desperate to feel each other. No matter. Their lips lock again and Tony cedes control to Steve. 

In quick strides, they’re in their bedroom, miraculously uncaught by Jarvis or any loitering Avenger. But, there’s not much of them here these days. At least, not their newly-minted New Avengers that fell into shambles in a matter of a few short weeks. Logan and Peter can’t smell them. 

God, Logan and Peter can’t smell them. And the Tower is empty with just Tony’s old ghosts reminding him of his failure, haunting the halls. 

“Tony, Tony,” Steve holds his ass with one arm, uses the other to open the door, closing it with his hips, then dropping Tony to the bed. King-sized because Tony likes to stretch out. Steve has said, _like a cat, my little darling cat,_ and there’s the cold memory of sleeping alone these past weeks while Steve’s on the run, and Tony’s tasked to hunt him. Tony returns to their bed, alone, cold with no one to pet him to sleep because Steve packed half of his clothes in an old army duffle bag and left.

And now he’s here, knees bend and between Tony’s legs, looking up at him in admiration, almost like a shy whisper. Steve cups his jaw, scratches the lines of his goatee with a thick thumb. “I’m here, Tony.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Tony says and it’s the truth. What he knows is that he’s woken up in the morning to look at Steve’s bright yellow toothbrush beside his blue one. It’s dry and unused for weeks. 

Steve is here now. He won’t be here for long. 

He ignores his shaky fingers and Steve is gracious enough to not say anything. Tony pushes his hair back for the second time that night, hand massaging Steve’s scalp. He presses their foreheads together. Breathes. Inhales Steve.

They’re no longer battle-ready. Worn out and faded from their fight earlier, they crumble. A pretty sight that comes apart at the seams. Steve looks at him, eyes wet, an apology goes unsaid. 

Tony quirks his lips, the smile fleeting. He knows this man, and can tell you about the two small moles right above his belly button and how Steve smiles when Tony licks at the marks. Trails wet kisses until Tony eventually chokes himself on Steve’s cock. The way Steve likes to fuck his face and call Tony pretty and the power it feels to come on Tony’s face. 

Tony understands him, and it’s true. This is goodbye.

“Steve.”

“Yeah?” 

“Can you remind me what it was like to be us? Before.” 

Before being on the receiving end of each other’s shouts, raised fists, a relationship littered with regret in just a matter of weeks. 

“Sweetheart.” Steve drops his head, mouths at Tony’s thigh and there’s a wet spot on his jeans now. 

Tony sighs, kneads Steve’s shoulders, trying to soothe out the rough edges even though he knows he can’t. His grating stubbornness and refusal to give in might be Tony's favorite part of him. Slowly, Steve sinks further down Tony’s lap. Half his torso is heavy and still holds tension. 

“Honey,” Tony says the endearment, a thousand different memories of them exchanging the word somehow relieves the tightness in his chest. They have that, still. But the word comes out jagged, wrong, without the same affection. All that’s here is the desperation to hold on, make it right. 

Steve looks up. His lashes are wet, and Tony wonders if Steve also cried on the way to whatever underground hole he’s hiding in. On his way back to the Tower, Tony snapped the helmet back on and pretended that the saltiness and heavy breaths fogging up his sight was just sweat. 

It wasn’t. It isn’t. It’s the same now. 

He takes Steve’s face into both of his hands—this, he thinks, this is the way he holds onto the world when all of its infrastructures are about to collapse, when the wild life has run dry, when the candle stops burning. 

Steve’s mouth opens, his tongue peaks out, and he’s rising up on his knees, kissing Tony, rubbing his biceps, falling forward in an embrace. They kiss, on and on, touching pink-red bruises, scratching each other’s scalps. Tony feels the heat in his belly grow again, feels it all the way down to his toes. 

Steve’s cradling him too, holding him like he’s something special. That’s the thing with Steve. He always treated Tony like he’s worth a damn. Saw Tony as a good, honorable man. Saw, because maybe it’s not like that anymore. But Tony knows people go back to what’s familiar. He’s a futurist, and here he is, regressing to the habit of how to be in love with Steve Rogers. How to coax a long-drawn out moan from him. How to kiss him proper until he gets rowdy, wild with demands. 

Soon enough, it happens. Steve’s pulling his body up, standing straight, chest heaving. He glances at Tony with wide, lust-blown eyes, two pale blue dots. Two spheres with an atmosphere of its own, and Tony flies around it. Around and around, that’s how captivating Steve is, and if Tony isn’t sitting on their bed, his knees might buckle. 

“How do you want me?”

 _Always,_ Tony doesn’t say. He’s holding back a lot these days. 

“Any way, whatever way you want.”

“Tony,” Steve’s voice is measured, almost commanding, oscillating between an amused scold reminiscent of many nights spent together, and pinched seriousness. “How?”

In all the ways possible. He should build a machine that runs projections of everything that involves Steve Rogers, but Tony knows that half the fun of being with Steve is never predicting him, even if he is predictable. 

“You, I just want you, Steve,” Tony tries the words out, blinking quickly because his eyes sting and there’s this loss deep in the cavities of his chest, an ache that hurts more than their fight from earlier. More than Steve pinning him on the Mansion’s ruins, fist up in the air, breathing heavily as Tony spits on his face. “I don’t care how.”

Steve swallows. His jaw works, clenching and unclenching until it finally settles into something looser. The fire still burns inside him, because this is fucking Steve. He looks at Tony in disbelief, shame. “Even now? Even after —”

Tony chuckles, and the broken sound echoes in the quiet of the room. “I will always want you, Steve. I’m practically programmed for it.” 

Steve’s head is tilted, expression changing inch by inch, thawing into something warm, something recognizable. Almost like they’re remembering they’re in love and that they love each other.

And yet, here they are. Sharing stale air in a room that used to be theirs, bed sheets made together in the morning, pillows kicked at night. The window curtains are parted because Steve likes the night light from the busy, New York city. It’s an artifact he holds onto from his days growing up in the belly of the city. Tony prefers sleeping pitch black, but lets the light pass because Steve likes it. And he loves Steve. 

They both hold onto artifacts, old hobbies. Learned behaviors that are difficult to shake away. 

Steve raises his hand, braces it on Tony’s shoulder. With his other hand, he tilts Tony’s head. 

Even in darkness, he's that ring of light that surrounds the moon, and Tony's just a moth who spins around him. He's always liked to fly and he's always been fond of handsome, almost untouchable things. But there is this surprise, always, when Steve gives in, meets Tony's greediness with his own stubborn need to please and pleasure the world around him. Tony's lost again, just a waddling thing in this moment, revolving around Steve, again and again. True and certain, the same way he knows nothing good might come out of this tomorrow.

But today. Tonight. They’ve got the rest of the evening, and maybe the morning before Steve would have to pad off, take a warm shower, pull his clothes back on, and leave Tony to fester in the smell of their used sheets. 

He’s being pulled up into Steve’s arms, and Tony’s body follows because it knows Steve, it knows what Steve wants, it knows what to do next. They’re kissing again, scrubbing at the nape of each other’s neck. Tony kisses him with worrying demand because if this is the last time, he might as well be greedy. Steve’s pulling off, both hands on the hem of Tony’s t-shirt, then urging him to put his hands up. Shirt gone, Tony toes off his shoes, unbuttons his pants, kicking it off with his boxers.

Steve tilts his head again, again, again. It’s a favorite, and Tony’s always liked Steve taking command. Steve kisses him, cups his chin with his thumb and forefinger, and traces the line of Tony’s lips with his tongue. His body responses to Steve’s touch, the flick off his nipples, the heavy touch of Steve’s hands on his lower back. Tony closes his eyes, embracing Steve.

“Is this okay?” Steve whispers, pausing to cup Tony’s face.

It probably isn’t, but Tony doesn’t say that. He nods, turns his head and kisses Steve’s wrist, feels the beat of his heart. Tony wants to say yes, of course, it’s fine. He belongs to Steve, will probably always will. Instead, he smiles because sex is familiar. Even with the heaviness of the moment, Steve’s still hard. Still wants him, even after everything. 

Tony mouths at Steve’s chest, rubbing his naked body on Steve’s groin. This is good, this should be easy. They’ve done this a thousand times, like a well-choreographed dance. They know each other’s bodies.

Blind spots, too. 

Tony drops to his knees, looking up at Steve as he unlaces his boots.

Steve bites his lip, “Honey, look at you, look at you. I—”

Tony doesn’t want to hear it because if he does, he’ll remember, and he’ll think about it, turn it over and over like a page to an endless book. He can’t have that. Not now.

He pats Steve’s ankle, makes him remove the boots. Tony peels off his socks. Navy blue. Tony got it for him just months ago. 

Steve packed half of his clothes and some of them were the ones Tony purchased for him. There’s a metaphor there somewhere. Steve shucks off his shirt, then he’s helping Tony unzip his pants and pull it down to his ankles. 

Steve’s thick cock springs free from his boxers—and one that Tony gave him—slightly crooked, but huge, and Tony drools for it. He needs it in his mouth, inside him. Tony traces the bulging vein, index finger running up and down the shaft to play with the leaking slit. Steve’s gorgeous, period. He’s so many things: hero, idol, man. Public, observed by the world. 

But Tony’s one of the few who sees him like this—chest panting, sweat dripping from his temples, mouth open, desperate to have his dick sucked. 

“Fuck my face?” It’s a question, but he already knows the answer to it. Steve never says no to holding Tony’s head like he has the reins to the world. 

“Make it wet,” Steve says, voice cracking.

That’s all it takes for Tony to pummels himself forward and swallow Steve down. He moans, shivering, putting one hand to pull at Steve’s thighs, the other, bringing Steve’s hand to his head. It’s been too long since he’s tasted Steve, felt him, was this close to him without yelling or bracing for a fight. Steve’s cock is a little salty and the wiry blond hairs that tickle his nose. Tony loves it, all of it, Steve, handsome and masculine, the smell of his musk, the sound of his encouraging groans sets Tony to work harder. Pushing to his limits until Steve’s hitting the back of his throat at increasing speed.

Tony’s knees begin to ache, but no matter, he works hard on trying to get Steve off. Steve tugs at his scalp, shifting away and popping his glistening cock out of Tony’s mouth. “Spit,” Steve heaves, abs flexing. There’s that glint of challenge in his eyes, a reminder of how just earlier, Tony spat on his face. “Spit on me.”

He licks Steve’s cock, ghosting it with his tongue, teasing before letting a mouthful of saliva drip, slow, slow, slow on his thick shaft. He watches the spit lick Steve’s dick, dripping down to his heavy balls. “Fuck. Steve.”

Steve’s fingers knead his neck, bringing his face to suck again. Tony groans, flattens his tongue, licking and bobbing up and down. He’s so incredibly hard, the sound of blood rushes through his ears, and there’s just Steve. Steve. Steve. Spit trickles down his beard, onto his chin, and he feels the wetness hit his thighs. Steve groaning and praising him like they don’t have an ocean of problems between them. They’re not stupid enough to believe a good fucking will solve it all. 

He snakes a hand to his own throbbing cock, squeezing the base and palming his balls. Tony looks up, catching Steve’s jaw-slacked, eyes-wide and on him. No, can’t have that. He wants to look at Steve, he wants to see Steve’s face as he comes, but then he’ll think off it—he’ll remember that just earlier—

Tony closes his eyes, breathes through his nose, loosens his jaw and lets Steve use his mouth like the whore he is.

“Goddamn it, Tony,” Steve twists the strands of his hair, pushing it back, then pulling again, like he can’t decide. He’s always been a determined man, pragmatic at best. He’s always made decisions easier than Tony ever has, and now, Steve’s decided on a brutal thrust, and Tony lets him, chokes on his dick, allows Steve’s heavy breathes to wash over him. Steve’s cock hitting the back of his throat, balls slamming on his chin. “Why, Tony, why do you have to—why, just. Fuck,” Steve keeps repeating, both hands on Tony’s neck, dragging Tony’s face to his cock. 

Tony knows Steve’s body like he knows the armor. Steve’s about to come. He moans, opens his eyes. The first thing he sees is the red of Steve’s lips, the pink hue of his cheekbones, and the blue of his eyes. “Oh, Tony, fuck, sweetheart, Tony. Tony. Tony.” 

He comes, splattering Tony’s mouth with his come. He tastes almost sweet, salty, unlike the bitterness of what they’ve become. Tony swallows around Steve’s dick, keeping his eyes on him the entire time. Steve watches back, removes his cock, and Tony knows that’s next, too. Steve cups his jaw, inspects that Tony’s swallowed all of him down. He smiles, tiny, wistful, and makes an approving sound.

Tony eats it up because there’s almost nothing else left but this warped determination to fuck each other good. Just for tonight. He sticks out his tongue, knowing he probably looks wanton, but Steve’s always liked him that way, looser, less in control. Steve takes his cock—half hard now, and getting harder again—dabs the head on Tony’s awaiting tongue. Once, twice, then he’s coating Tony’s lips with the taste of him again.

Steve puts his hands on Tony, lifting him up from the floor and hoisting him up to the bed. Tony backs away to the pillows and Steve’s just right behind him. Looking at him. Always looking. It’s a never ending observation with Steve. 

Tony can’t do this. He can. He can. 

He looks at the window. The moon is high again, and how many times did they share an evening in bed wrapped around each other? 

“Tony, sweetheart,” Steve taps his ankle, pulls them apart, then makes his way between them. He kisses Tony’s jaw, inching up to peck Tony’s eyes. “Yours has always been my favorite blue.” 

“You’ve said,” Tony croaks out, meeting Steve’s eyes. It’s his favorite blue, too.

“Still mean it.”

“Yeah,” and he almost believes it.

Steve takes his face in both of his hands, forcing their heads together. They breathe each other's scent. Tony smells like Steve’s come. He doesn’t know how it happens, but they’re kissing again, tongues delving in deep, sucking and prodding into each other’s mouth. When Steve pulls away, he pauses, then determined, says, “Open.”

Tony follows the order, rocking his dick on Steve’s stomach. The first drop is warm, gooey, and tastes absolutely nothing, which is very much like Steve. The spit drips from Steve’s mouth unhurried, languid, and Tony groans when it hits his tongue again. Steve smiles, a little upturned curl. Tony would follow that curve anywhere. Except. Well. 

He laughs because Steve’s smiling, dropping his spit on Tony’s parted lips. Yes, spitting in this context is much better. Tony hums, reaching up to thumb Steve’s cheeks. He’s blushing down to his chest. Tony tweaks his nipple, earning a drawn out moan. Steve shifts again, further down, dragging his mouth over Tony’s pecs, twirling the tip of his tongue on Tony’s nipples. Steve looks up, his hair’s a mess, imperfect and Tony loves him. He does. He won’t stop. 

Steve drops a kiss on his sternum, murmuring, “I’ll lick you open. Is that okay?”

“Yes, yeah,” Tony replies, already turning on the bed only to be stopped by Steve holding his hip down. 

“No, I want to see your face.” Steve nudges Tony’s hips up, settling a pillow on his lower back. “Let me, please.”

Tony isn’t a fool. This isn’t to please him, no, it’s for Steve, because Steve loves to steal groans and curses out of him, fuck his hole until he’s mumbling and incoherent. It isn’t worship, but maybe if Tony closes his eyes and wishes hard enough, maybe it could be. This is for Steve to own him, and Tony will let him. 

He parts his legs as far as they can go. Steve tugs them further apart, wordlessly. He fumbles for the side table, and smiles triumphant at Tony. He holds up the bottle of lube like a trophy. 

“I still have your toothbrush too.” Tony confesses, and feels stupid and ashamed because Steve left and they’re fighting, and yet he’s here about to stick his dick inside Tony.

“Thank you, I’ll use it later.” Steve’s gaze softens in increments. He’s been glacial since this entire Registration Act bullshit started, since they can’t talk without resorting to unveiled insults or worse, fights that end in cuts and bruises. It’s like watching the ice caps from the mountains melt. It’s a pretty side from a distance. But Tony knows better. Up close, the snow is sludgy revealing patches of land that's covered in grays. He traces the slope of Steve’s face and Tony thinks, _I’ve loved you half my life, I’ll love you for the rest of it, too._

Maybe he should say it, maybe he should utter these words, see if they mean something to Steve. He wants to, he wants to, but he doesn’t. Tony loses himself in the rhythm of Steve rubbing his warm, lubed fingers over his hole. 

He’s moaning, but all he can think of is that Steve said, _later,_ meaning he might stay and this might work out. But maybe it’s false hope because is there a world where this won’t end in a huge row, in one of them in prison, or worse, dead? 

Steve’s tongue laps at his hole, distracting him from thoughts about the future, of what might happen after they fuck. Tony can’t help but wish that Steve would stay. Use the damn toothbrush because it’s still here. Tony can’t manage to get rid of it.

Steve licks along his crack, warm breath ghosting over the creases of Tony's thighs. "God, Steve," Tony says as Steve makes circles with his tongue. 

“You like that?” Steve pulls off, kissing Tony’s pubic bone. His face looks so open, like he’s pleased to be taking Tony apart. 

“You know I do,” Tony throws a hand over his eyes. He can’t look at Steve. He’s close to breaking apart. This is worse than the Mansion. Steve’s on him again, hands all over him, but this time, it’s softer. It hurts just as much. 

Steve makes a satisfied sound then continues his assault on Tony’s hole. He licks around and around, wiggling a finger in and out. The sensation of Steve's mouth and fingers makes Tony breathless, stupid with desire, with a dream to be fucked good and pretty. Steve dives in, like with everything he does. He spreads Tony's cheeks further apart and dives in. Tony loosens with the fingers pumping inside him and the flat tongue jabbing at his hole. "Fuck." Steve pulls off, licks Tony's balls and up his shaft. "I miss you."

“Shut up, Steve. Shut the fuck up, please.”

Steve sits up, and damn, he’s huge, wide chest, trim waist, and Tony gets even harder when his eyes land on Steve’s hung cock. Massive and red. He wants to be fucked until fucking SHRA is over.

“Why can’t I say that?” Steve fists himself, head tilting. That used to be cute, too. 

“Because?”

“Because fuck you.”

“I miss you, please let me say it,” He says, eyes subdued, voice feather light. 

“Fine. You can say it.”

“You can say it back, too.”

“No.” 

Steve shakes his head with disappointment. But it’s not like finding Tony on the other side of their debate. Their little war. 

No, this is Steve shaking his head and twisting his mouth because he knows he’ll win. Without warning, he spits on Tony’s stomach. It's warm. Steve hisses as they both watch it trip towards Tony's chest. Then, he does it and again and again. Three more times in quick and consecutive. Methodological, because it’s Steve. He looks at Tony’s messy chest and stomach, glowing with pride. As if to say, _look, I marked you anyway._

Tony’s bastard brain betrays him because he fucking loves it, he moans, panting like a cockslut when Steve rubs two fingers on it smear it over his pointed nipples. He leans over, follows the trail of spit until he’s just above Tony’s lips, boxing Tony in with both arms. Steve kisses his lips, chaste and gentle. He inches away, dropping spit on Tony’s mouth. “Please, yes, please.” Tony swallows it all, greedy, he’s always asked for more. Never knew when to quit. Steve’s his worst habit. “I do, I do,” Tony mumbles, slurping and licking the taste of Steve’s saliva from his mouth.

“What?” Steve thumbs eyebrows and pushes his hair back. “What is it?”

“Miss you.”

“Alright,” he smiles, bright and happy and seeing him like this fucking hurts. “Good, now let me finish opening you up.” Steve kisses him again. On the lips, then his chin, before moving back down to swallow Tony’s cock and lap at his hole. Steve continues to stretch him up, getting more lube and fingering him open with those mighty thick fingers. Soon enough, he abandons the lube and just starts dripping his saliva on Tony’s abused hole, stretched by his fingers. “If you could see how good you take it, Tony.” Steve kisses the inside of his thighs, crookes his fingers like a damn champ, and hits Tony’s prostate. 

With anticipation, he curls his toes, hitches his legs up higher, one foot planting firmly on the bed, while the other hits Steve's back. "More, Steve, please, come on.”

“Impatient,” Steve nips his groin. “You’ve always been impatient.”

Tony wants to say that’s not true, it’s you who’s always been impatient. Can’t swallow down words that disagree with you, Tony doesn’t utter these words. Instead, he goes up on one elbow and bends over to grab Steve’s hair. He tugs and barks out, “Shut the fuck up and make yourself useful for once, Cap.” 

Steve’s nostrils flare and there’s that lovely furrowed brows that twist at the challenge. With his large hands, he pushes Tony back to the bed. “You just wanna get fucked.”

“Well, it has been awhile.”

Steve doesn’t reply, but he meets Tony’s eyes and it’s another storm raging. Tony almost thinks Steve will hit him. He has. 

He shoves two fingers roughly inside Tony's hole, staring at Tony all the while. There's only the sound of his fucking, a squelnching sound that used to make Tony so hard. He's still hard. But, he can't look at Steve anymore. He stares at the ceiling, puts a hand on his cock, and jerks it.

“No.” Steve pulls off without warning and grabs Tony’s wrist with the same hand that was just fucking him. He slams them to the mattress. “No,” he whispers, “Come on, look at me. Let’s have this.” 

It sounds too much like a goodbye. One last hurrah. Tony doesn’t want that. 

He tears his eyes from the white plaster of the ceiling, glances at Steve. That ocean of blue. His ocean of blue. An ocean of trouble. He’s repeated this phase to Steve so many times before. A quiet good morning, a murmured goodnight, _It’s an ocean of blue to get lost in._

It’s still true. 

“Look at me, please, Tony.” 

Tony’s nodding because he’s lost in that shade of blue. Blue, like forget-me-nots. Blue, like the color of the cowl. Blue, like how Tony feels now. 

“Alright.” He breathes out and suddenly, they’re meeting halfway. Tony kisses him first because Steve’s blush is red. Red like the blood Tony spat out in the Mansion. “Alright, my love,” he’s choking on the words now, but it’s true. It isn’t a lie. There’s no masks here. No deception, not like the EMP. No, bullshit. It's Tony bare, naked with Steve and there's something that's almost close to still being in love here.

He pushes up, repositions himself so he’s straddling Steve. Tony grabs Steve’s neck, squeezes it, again and again, making himself remember that this is real. With their foreheads pressed close, he ghosts a kiss on Steve’s eyelids, feels it damp, and has his heart broken again and again. 

Tony isn’t the only one losing anything here. Even if it feels like it. He mutters words he can’t remember. All that matters is Steve, pleasing him, making him feel good, whole, and loved. He’s never cared so much about where he’ll be at the end of this fight, but there’s only one thing that haunts his thoughts: the fact that he might lose Steve. Steve, Steve, Steve. Another planet of problems. A universe full of love. 

And it’s not enough.

Tony reaches behind him, pumping Steve’s cock and rubbing at the head before positioning it over his hole. He’s loose and Steve can easily slide in, but Tony makes him work for it. Steve’s always up for the challenge. They kiss and rock their bodies together until finally, Tony grinds just right and the head of Steve’s cock slips in. 

Steve’s arms tighten around his waist, gripping enough to bruise. Tony wants the mark there to be there in the morning. A reminder that this fucking, this fucked up away to cope with their relationship falling apart, happened. Tony twists his hips in slow circles until he fully descends on Steve’s dick. 

The burn is good. He’s well stretched with fingers, spit, and lube, but there’s nothing like being pried open by Steve’s thick cock. It’s stupid, but he feels whole. This is one thing he’s sure of. Fucking is what he knows. Tony stabilizes himself with both hands going to Steve’s shoulders and bounces up and down, letting gravity pull him down. 

Steve’s mouth is open and his pupils are dilated. He’s keeping still, ceding to Tony’s control. For once.

Tony lets the pride settle in his chest. He’s fucking Captain America into silence. A hand slips to hit Steve’s chest. He wants to spit on it so bad. If Steve was still wearing his suit, Tony would aim for the goddamn star. 

Instead, he grips Steve’s shoulders, hard, shakes him as if to tell him _can’t you fucking listen to me you goddamn stubborn fuck. You stupid, stupid beautiful man. You’ll die, you’ll die if you keep at this._

Tony doubles his efforts, impaling himself on Steve’s dick. Eyes on each other, Steve shifts forward to capture his lips, sucking on the bottom before nipping at Tony’s jaw. He plants his feet on the mattress and begins thrust up just as Tony drops down. Together, they work. An approximation of a conversation unspoken. A kiss here and long, drawn out moans, Tony keeps shaking Steve’s entire torso. Steve meets his gaze head on but Tony can’t decipher what Steve’s saying with the sound of their moans and the pleasure building in his balls. He can come from Steve’s dick alone. Steve’s orgasm must be building too because his pace quickens.

“You’re a dream,” Steve says, interrupting Tony’s racing thoughts. “I’ve always thought so.”

“Steve.” Tony pauses, surprised. 

Steve continues his shallow thrusts, bringing his forehead to Tony’s. The gesture is intimate, and Steve makes it worse by taking a lock of Tony’s hair and pushing it behind his ear. “A dream made real,” he says, fingers finding the wetness on Tony’s eyes and wiping it away. 

Tony does the same for Steve, carefully tracing the single tear drop down his left eye. He kisses Steve’s eyes, then moves onto plant a single kiss on his lips, rocking up and down.

Steve nudges him on his back. The angle shifts with Steve momentarily hitting his prostate. Tony sees stars, whining when Steve moves away to position himself further between Tony’s legs. The fury from earlier pace simmers into something slow and too true. Steve looks into his eyes, whispering bullshit about how he loves Tony and they’ll make it work, _because somehow, we always do, Shellhead._

Tony doesn’t know if Steve is lying to Tony or himself. But Tony gathers up all the broken syllables and keeps it close to his chest, because even in a murmur, Steve’s words are still captivating. He cannot fault Steve for it. Tony shakes his head, frantic, and doubles his efforts into fucking himself on Steve’s dick. 

Steve kisses him, drops some spit onto his awaiting mouth, and it’s all fine, even just for a few moments, because Steve is thrusting wild and keeps staring at him the entire time.

There are three words on the tip of Tony’s tongue but he doesn’t do Steve the disservice of uttering them. It’s not enough.

“Will you come for me?” Steve asks, and Tony nods, frantic now. He tries to get a hand between their bodies but Steve slaps it away, admonishing him with a huff. He leans back, spits on his hand, and jerks Tony off.

Tony fights his orgasm, grabs Steve by the neck and thrusts up. “No, I want to come inside your mouth after you’re done.”

“Fuck, alright, alright.” Steve lifts Tony’s hips up higher, practically twisting him in half, and shoots his load. “I’m coming. Tony, I’m coming. Fuck.” He keeps rocking and Tony’s heart doubles in size because there’s Steve’s come inside him, marking him. He feels it all the way up to his belly and he clenches to keep Steve there.

Steve hisses, drops a kiss on the chin, and pulls off. He grabs Tony’s knees, opening them wide to stare at the come dripping down Tony’s hole.

“How does it look?”

“Like it’s mine.”

Steve knows he likes to be owned. 

Tony fights a sigh, when Steve circles his rim and sucks his cock. Tony’s up on his elbows watching his cock get swallowed by perfect lips and blue eyes. Always blue. 

Tony comes, chanting Steve’s name the entire time like a man attending church in devotion. His orgasm hits him hard. It’s a release he didn’t expect tonight and it feels damn good to be battered and fucked and owned by Steve.

Steve swallows around his dick, pulls off, and spits on Tony’s softening cock with a smirk. He drops to Tony’s side and pulls Tony to his chest. Like old times.

Like tomorrow won’t come.

Even when Steve’s angry, he’s still the perfect man. Shaped and living ideals Tony could never measure up to. He's tried. He's trying. 

Steve offers him a hand, palms outstretched. The moment before Goliath’s death flashes, bright and vivid. Steve offers a hand, there’s that damned EMP. In the Mansion, Steve offers a hand. _Join me. Denounce the act and help me fight it._

If only life is easy. Straight-forward and simple, no catastrophe every Tuesday afternoon. A quiet, uncomplicated life. 

It isn’t them. 

Who are they without the chase and that hunger for a future, a better, brighter tomorrow? They call him a futurist, but Tony can’t predict where they’ll end up. If it’ll be Steve six feet under in Arlington, or him, burning with the rest of his machines. 

This is a different fight, one they’ll both lose. 

Eventually, Steve gets up, mumbling something about getting a washcloth and cleaning up. Tony watches Steve heave himself up and enter the bathroom. Feeling heavy, he rises and follows. Inside, Steve offers him a small smile and makes a move to rub at the dried come and spit on Tony’s torso.

“No, it’s alright. Leave it.” Tony stops him with a light squeeze. “I like it.”

He wants to feel it tomorrow, remember that tonight was real. 

“Alright.”

Steve holds his gaze for a moment too long, then he grabs the damned yellow toothbrush, puts the toothpaste on it, and brushes his teeth. Tony mimics him and they look at each other in the mirror. It’s horribly domestic and this feeling of rightness grows in his chest, waging a war between his firm belief that he’s lost Steve, and this stupid, pitiful beam of hope, that perhaps they might talk and compromise. Perhaps, it might get better. 

Steve spits, rinses his mouth, and splashes water on his face. He takes Tony’s towel, dries his face off.

“I feel like I’m home,” Steve whispers, kissing his shoulder. It feels like love. 

_You don’t have to leave,_ Tony bites his lips and doesn’t say the words out loud because he knows Steve will walk out the door come morning. He’ll wear the suit and patrol the streets with the rest of the New Avengers, and the next time Tony will see him, they’ll fuck again. Only this time, the cuts are meant to hurt, and they might not pull back. 

No, that’s wrong. Steve will soften the punches. If they ever come to killing each other at the end of this, he hopes it’ll be in Steve’s arms. What a way to die. 

“Welcome home,” Tony says, empty. 

Hope is a terrible thing because it makes men like Tony dream. 

And yet.

He spits the toothpaste and rinses his mouth, and when he looks up, Steve’s behind him. A pensive expression on his face. It’s a portrait of domestic life.

“Let’s go to bed?” Steve rolls his shoulders back twice. He’s still naked and when he presses close, his pubic hair tickles Tony. 

Tony does what he wants because it’s just for tonight. He forces smiles and turns to face Steve. “Yeah,” he cards a hand on Steve’s already mused hair, settles it on his shoulder, and they walk back to their bed room, steps in sync. Hand in hand.

Tony settles on the left. Steve on the right. They meet in the middle and exchange lazy kisses. 

Steve can’t see the future and he’s making a mistake. Tony bites the words down, letting himself drift into that hazy comfort of Steve’s warmth. They kiss and kiss, trade spit and quiet little groans. Tony drinks all of it in, every pant, soft breath.

What’s his in the meantime. Because tomorrow— 

He settles closer to Steve, lining their bodies together, then he’s whispering up to Steve, and takes what’s his. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

Tony dreams of the rats in the Mansion and the burns on the ruined sofa. The wreckage.

“Steve,” he calls out sometime later. Because he’s foolish and he wants to see Steve one more time, tomorrow, the next day. He hopes he’ll wake up still in Steve’s arms, wishing that he’ll turn around tomorrow morning and see those blue eyes and remember them without anger. “What was it—what couldn’t you say earlier?”

Sex makes them soft, pacifying the arguments at the tip of their tongue. 

Steve turns, the muscles of his shoulders flexing. He smiles, the curve of his lips inchin higher and higher and it’s almost like everything is fine, as if tomorrow Steve wouldn’t have to be on the run, hiding, and Tony wouldn’t be tasked to bring him in. “I’ll tell you next time.” 

Steve presses his face on the space between Tony’s shoulder blades. He inhales, noses the muscle there, then falls asleep with his arm around Tony’s waist.

It could be like this, Tony thinks. But it won’t be. Tomorrow, they’ll wake up, Steve will get dressed and go underground. Tony knows where they’ll both be and they’ll inevitably fall to punches instead of desperate kisses. The world is like that sometimes. They’re not the poetics of two star-crossed lovers, but they’re not lovers to begin with. Friends, once upon a time. Now, just two people seeking comfort in each other before they say goodbye.

“Steve?”

“Still here.”

“Okay,” Tony says, nodding off, drifting back to sleep, the last thing he hears is _goodnight, honey._

In the morning, Tony walks up alone in bed, and he lets out a sob. The sheets are sticky with their spit and come. His pillow is wet with tears. Then, he hears the shower turn on, the humming from the bathroom. Steve’s still here.

But Tony is still mourning.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Comments and kudos are loved!!!
> 
> I am on  Tumblr  and on discord as resurrectedhippo#8509.  
>   
> [If you like dark, psychological horror, and heart-pulverizing angst fics, please check out this Sad Secret Santa event. ](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Stonys_Sad_Secret_Santa)  
>   
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